Le Quattro Stagioni
by eshajouri
Summary: Spring, summer, autumn and winter: Arthur's love life, which the universe and Vivaldi seem to conspire against.


**A/N**: Uh, I'm kind of obsessed with the idea of Arthur original name being Tom Hansen, from 500 Days Of Summer. As I don't watch many romantic movies, I didn't _really_ pay attention when I watched it, so please forgive any mistakes. I'm also kind of obsessed with _Le Quattro Stagioni_ for some personal reasons, but you don't have to actually know it. It's beautiful, I advise you to listen while reading, but that's up to you, not very necessary. The story is unbeta'd, therefore typos are mine. I finished it in a hurry, which is never good, because I have tons of other fics to finish... God help me. Please enjoy.

**Warnings**: Crack. And there's more fluff than I intended. Kind of really unrealistic, too. T for language, just to make sure.

**Disclaimer**: Disclaimed.

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><p><strong>Le Quattro Stagioni<strong>

Arthur, born by the name of Thomas Hansen, had always been taught to listen to baroque music, since Grandma played the harpsichord; her favorite one was Bach, and she played his concerts for little Tom when they had nothing else much to do—which happened more often than not, because nothing was just as fascinating as the sound of harpsichord to him, and the way Grandma's hands and fingers moved seemed faster than a lightening.

At the age of six, though, little Tom asked Grandpa to teach him how to play the violin. Grandpa's violin was way too big for his tiny arms to hold, so they bought him, as a birthday present, a 1/4-sized one, which was still a little too big, but they didn't pay much attention, since Tom would soon grow taller.

When he had the tunes learned and registered inside his head, Tom, who was good with numbers and rhythm without even knowing what that actually meant, learned to play his small violin just as fast as Grandma's hands and fingers moved when she played Bach, which speaking of wasn't his favorite anymore; it was now Vivaldi, because Vivaldi had beautiful pieces and Le Quattro Stagioni was absolutely _awesome_.

_**la** **primavera**;_

Tom never actually _knew_ which season was the first one, but he had always assumed it was spring, because it was his favorite and he usually started counting the years from late-April, since it was his birthday. He loved playing it with Grandpa and Grandma (though the original _Primavera_ was too hard for him, so Grandpa went through the trouble to rearrange it for him). They were so talented and bright, they never lost their rhythm nor got tired of playing with Tom.

But then, Grandpa passed away when he was ten-springs-old. Mama and Papa said it would be best if Tom kept playing the violin, but in a conservatory, because Grandma was still a little sad that Grandpa left before her; they also explained him a lot of things he had never asked, such as what _cancer_ meant, and that it had taken Grandpa.

_Okay_, he said.

At the conservatory, he met this girl, whose birthday was also in spring. She knew how to play _La Primavera_, and they played together, but it didn't feel the same (mostly because she wasn't as talented and bright as Grandma and Grandpa). The girl, though, seemed to enjoy it a lot and said they should date or something.

_Okay_, Tom said.

It was his first kiss, but didn't know what it meant back then.

He didn't like it, so he decided spring wasn't his favorite season anymore, because he felt unhappy whenever he missed Grandpa.

_**l'estate**;_

He had forgotten about his violin by the time he met Summer. He was barely twenty-two-springs-old, and counted the years by months, and he had learned that years started in January. _L'Estate_ was a beautiful movement, and it _did_ remind him of Summer (not as much as The Smiths did, but still); there was the famous _Storm_ and really sounded like his somewhat girlfriend—wild, free and beautiful. Graceful.

But that was it; _L'Estate_ wasn't as happy as _La Primavera_, and certainly not as colorful. And Summer was like that, eccentric and had all colors around her. Tom thought, at some point, that her name should be Spring, but then she wouldn't be as beautiful as she was. Or maybe she would. He couldn't decide. He was too young and thought about everything too much.

When they broke up, _no_, when Summer got married to some douchebag, his heart sunk so hard and so deep he could barely breath. He hated The Smiths now and also hated _L'Estate_.

_**l'autunno**;_

Autumn came right along. Bright, funny, kind. Everything about Vivaldi's movement spoke her essence, her femininity and Tom was almost in love again with the stitches she made onto his heart. _Almost_.

Autumn was the one who remembered him he could play the violin, and _L'Autunno_ sort of became their lovesong. Only it wasn't very romantic after the first four or five minutes, so Tom made it up and turned it into a romantic-comedy tune and Autumn never went through the trouble of looking it up on YouTube. Otherwise, she would know Tom had lied about their so-called lovesong all along.

She wasn't so bright, then.

_**l'inverno**;_

Tom had just turned twenty-four-springs old and, by then, he had already figured it out—that his life kind of played _Le Quattro Stagioni_ and, after some months thinking to himself, he settled down with it; if fate was to mock him that way, what could he do? His hands were tied and he wasn't one to struggle against greater will of gods who needed someone to laugh at anyway. So he waited for his relationship with Autumn to fail miserably, and then for a girl whose name had some bizarre reference to seasons of the year to pass by his life.

Fall and winter weren't that much of different in Tom's point of view, though, so they kind of blended together by the final months of the year, when all trees were left bare, free of leaves and, slowly, winter finally became winter, and it snowed.

He didn't expected it to happen so soon, then went out to look for a job, because he had just found he was good, no, he was _excellent_ with details, but lacked imagination to create buildings and forms and be successful as a free-lance architect. He filled his curriculum with such information and headed hurriedly to the interview—which he was already late for—at the bank next to the apartment he shared with Autumn. As gods enjoyed mocking him, a man who looked more like a wardrobe just crashed into him, spreading his things all around the sidewalk.

The man seemed to stop halfway of an apology when he read the paper he held in his calloused hands. A smirk spread across his full lips and showed slightly crooked teeth when he said with a heavy English accent:

_What's your name, darling?_

_Tom_, he said.

_Really? You don't look like Tom._

_Yeah_, he said.

_You looking for a job, Tom? 'Cause I know one you might be interested in._

The man, whose clothes were almost offensive to anyone who wasn't colorblind, offered his curriculum back and Tom took it and nodded his head; his interview must've been blown off anyway.

_Gimme a call, will you, pet? You're not regretting it, I swear._

The guy—Eames, Tom would later learn—handed him a business card with no name in it, but there was a phone number and _COBOL Engineering _written to it.

_I will_, Tom said, a little stunned by the event.

He would later find what COBOL Engineering worked with, and he would find what Eames did for a living and that it wasn't legitimately _legal_. Tom would have his name changed and life erased—a choice of his own—and became Arthur. He'd never told Autumn he left, and never looked back, because something about this _Eames_ screamed winter for him, the universe wanted him to carry on with his life and he was somewhat afraid he might trip on his past in case he did. He presumed Autumn would be just fine by herself, because Summer was more than okay without him and the music had to play on, one way or another; COBOL wasn't any company to fool around with, and they never really gave him a choice.

"You're much smarter now, aren't you, love," Eames remarks, taking a drag of his Marlboro Red cigarette. "You've changed a lot since the first time we met," and the same smirk he's had for years is there, waving memories of Tom to Arthur.

"I can't say the same to you, Mr. Eames," he smiles back from the window frame. The hotel room they're sharing for their current job is dimly lit, filled with Eames' laugh and post-sex atmosphere. "Sometimes I think about it, you know," he drifts his eyes from the city view to the forger's lazy smile. "About what my life would be with Autumn if you never showed up."

Eames hums a random tune before considering the question. "Well, darling," he finally looks at Arthur, looks at his naked body and shrugs. "A lot windier and with fallen leaves, I'm guessing?" he jokes and it startles Arthur for a moment—he never mentioned his theory of the universe and Vivaldi conspiring against him, but Eames goes on. "Bad joke, I know," he smiles at him once more. "Don't think too much. Do you regret calling COBOL that time?"

Arthur doesn't answer; he does and he doesn't regret it. He has weighed the pros and cons more times he can count and never concludes what the _best option_ was, whether he left it behind or followed it. For instance, he never jumped right into a relationship with Eames. He's a guy, and he wasn't gay or bisexual, and, for winter to come, that meant Arthur needed to go through an identity crisis (as if changing from Tom to Arthur wasn't identity crisis-ish enough). So he did. He went through it and never thought that _love is beyond gender_, partially because he won't admit he's falling in love with such an asshole as Eames, and partially because Eames won't admit it either—it's some kind of unspoken loyalty towards each other they won't ever verbalize unless it's strictly necessary. He learned not to push things with Summer.

Even so, he feels happy. Eames makes him happy, because there's the rush of adrenaline during a job, the adrenaline of shooting projections, of memorizing every detail, of a team depending on his ability as the best of point men, of working with Eames, having sex with Eames, living with him, _being with him_. Eames is absolutely addictive. Eames is absolutely gorgeous and bright and smart. Arthur feels happy and complete as he never felt as Tom. Even without a last name, even if he's always running from anonymous companies with Cobb and taking illegal jobs, he is _satisfied_.

_No_, he hears himself finally answering.

Eames gives him a knowing smile and gestures for him to _come back to bed, tomorrow's gonna be a long day_, _darling_.

Arthur decides his new favorite season is winter, and he doesn't plan on letting anyone change that. Not even the universe, the gods or even Vivaldi himself.


End file.
